


It Means Nothing

by Pluppelina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Cheating, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pluppelina/pseuds/Pluppelina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know it only hurts because he wants it to. That doesn't make the pain go away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Means Nothing

He’s little but he’s vicious, and by the time he has you pinned to the bed with his arm threatening to crush your trachea he’s well deserved his position. You find yourself panting and you’re not sure if you’re panting because of the fight or the nightmare; you’re not even sure which came first. It’s quite possible that this is only part of the nightmare, but you don’t think so, because you aren’t afraid. You’re never afraid with him on top of you, not anymore.

His mouth tastes red when he kisses you, like blood and strawberry ice cream. His arm is still resting just above your clavicles and you kiss back willingly, hungrily, but never greedily. He’ll give you all he wants to give, and you’d never dream of taking anything more from him, not even like this, not even when you're so desperate for him to have you. It's gotten ridiculous, how well-trained you are, and how little you've come to mind that these days. All you want is to please him, and please him, you will. He unzips his trousers and you open your mouth.

Later, when you swallow his come, it tastes blue like anemia and the sea you want to drown in. You’re so hard, always so hard like this, with him sitting on your chest, coming and coming down your throat as though it’s never going to end. He always tells you that if you do well enough, sucking him off, you’ll get a reward, but you’ve never done well enough to merit one. You already know that you haven’t this time either, but that’s alright. Serving is its own reward, and you haven't gotten to serve in so long. He’s been in Paris for a week and you’re so glad to have him back, despite the fact that there is a different shade of lipstick on almost every single one of his shirt collars. For a moment you wonder if he put it there himself to hurt you, or to make you jealous, or to make you work harder to keep him, or any of the other billion things it makes you feel like. 

On the other hand, it really has been long since you got to suck him off, and he isn't the kind of man to wait for you. A week without his personified glory hole doesn't in any way mean a week in celibacy, not for Jim Moriarty, and you're well aware, so you scrub the stains off and pretend like nothing ever happened. Going by his knowing smirk the next morning, he's not convinced. You feel like you’re playing right into his hands - which, come to think of it, is the way you always feel these days so you lay back on the bed and look at the constellations in the plaster of the bedroom ceiling, and you ignore the hard-on between your legs because he does and his word is law, lipstick or no lipstick.

Ironically, nothing he did is ever cruel until that night when he curls up around your side and tells you that he loves you. The lie isn’t what hurts - what hurts is that when you say it back, it’s not a lie at all.


End file.
